In the vast canvas of Indian mythology, there are few stories that are as iconic as the Mahabharata, a tale of desire, deceit and the unrelenting force of fate. Netflix’s Kurukshetra web series is a bold animated series that started on October 10. It tries to condense this epic into a narrower lens: the 18 day war of Kurukshetra seen through the eyes of 18 warriors whose individual battles and victories make up the fractured picture of the war. Created by Anu Sikka and directed by Ujaan Ganguly, with animation by Hitech Animation, the show comes in two parts—the first 9 episodes are out now and the rest will be out on October 24. Told by the poet laureate Gulzar, whose voice weaves in sorrow and wisdom amidst the chaos, Kurukshetra is a modern retelling of ancient heroism. But in an age where big stories are being reimagined for big and small screens, does this animated series do justice to the original or does it falters because of its visuals?
As the camera pans out, Gulzar’s prologue talks about the colours of truth and the series begins with a sense of foreboding rather than loud conflicts. Abhimanyu’s marriage to Princess Uttara in the Matsya Kingdom is like a sword hanging over the storm. Each episode is a vignette from a different warrior’s perspective – Bhishma’s oath bound anguish, Sanjay’s clairvoyant torment, Dronacharya’s divided loyalties and so on. Then it gets into the fray – Abhimanyu and Jayadratha’s young enthusiasm. The first 14 days of the war covers the Pandavas’ siege on the Kauravas’ phalanx, including the deaths of grandfather Bhishma and the guru and the fall of the Kauravas. a terrible chakravyuha that kills a generation. The moral dilemma of the battlefield – decisions that pit dharma against survival, family, duty and transient fame against eternal regret – is the Mahabharata’s long backstory, which is glossed over by Sikka and Ganguly and author Vinod Sharma. In the midst of the mantras and arrows it transforms rote recitations into private confessions and brings new air into the familiar.
Kurukshetra is a visual treat, a cel-shaded extravaganza that marries traditional Indian craftsmanship with modern CGI. In vast dioramas of the Kuru plain, Hitech Animation shows chariots driving through dust clouds, astras blooming like fractal fireworks and warriors silhouetted against apocalyptic sunsets. Early episodes have a stiffness in movement, characters sometimes slipping into the uncanny valley, their faces looking like masks rather than mirrors. It’s not perfect. But the art grows with the war; Abhimanyu’s captivity is visceral horror as slow motion lances break shields in a balletic manner. Ghatotkacha’s night time rampage plays out in dark ink-wash reveries that bring back the epic’s night time ferocity, agony. The sound design is great, the metallic clang, the guttural war cries, the ethereal twang of the Anjalika arrow, all of which is accompanied by a score that combines Vedic chants with. sometimes it overwhelms more emotional moments with orchestral swells.
Gulzar’s narration is the heart of the series. His deep voice, like a velvet curtain over a brutal scene, gives the lines he wrote a philosophical depth. It takes it from being just a big battle show and makes it a real, soul searching elegy. When he says, “The truth has many shades” he sets the tone of complexity and ambiguity that colours everything the warriors go through – from Arjuna’s moment of crippling doubt before the war horn sounds to Yudhishthira’s quiet breakdown under the weight of dharma.
The voice acting is good in places. Sahil Vaid’s brooding Arjuna is excellent; he carries the character’s indecision with a raw, believable vulnerability. And Saumya Daan gives Bhishma a gravitas that’s beautifully tinged with sorrowful resignation. These performances humanise these epic characters, peel back the armour to reveal the confused men underneath. Their internal struggles become a chorus of doubt that feels very relevant to our own fractured world.
But the voice cast stumbles sometimes. The smaller roles are uneven; characters like Jayadratha feel like a caricature. Their accents and inflections are jarringly modern against the mythic backdrop and honestly just snap you out of the immersion like a badly tuned sitar string.
But Kurukshetra has the scars of history. The animation is uneven and the voiceover cast doesn’t have the star power—imagine Amitabh Bachchan as Duryodhana or Vidya Balan as Kunti, the kind of actors who could make these characters immortal. At times the series glosses over background details in rapid fire explanations to not alienate those who don’t know the content and it teeters on being didactic, lacks the playfulness of earlier shows like Mahavatar Narsimha. In a world of mythology—from re interpretations of the Ramayana to stage shows—Kurukshetra is a decent effort, sincere in its intent though inconsistent in its execution, a cinematic poem that whispers what it could have shouted.
Kurukshetra: Part 1 is a great introduction to Netflix’s mythological storytelling, a show that takes the intense emotions and deep thoughts of the Mahabharata and gets us to the good stuff. It’s a must watch for myth buffs looking for something new, families who want to be amazed together and anyone looking within. As the conches fall silent on the 14th day, we’re left with the unanswered questions – will it deliver on the promises made? For now this is dharma in action: imperfect, intense and human. In the never ending telling of stories, Kurukshetra finds its place not as the final story but as a message from the battlefields of destiny.